


Kurapika's Parents

by BlueLightningAndNexus



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Succession Contest Arc (Hunter X Hunter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueLightningAndNexus/pseuds/BlueLightningAndNexus
Summary: Aboard the Black Whale, Kurapika remembers his mother and father, the slaughter of the Kurta clan, and his reason for fighting.
Kudos: 9





	Kurapika's Parents

Kurapika of the Kurta clan was born to loving parents. 

He was a spring birth. The Kurta clan was small, numbering only 108 members at the time and 127 by the end of their lives. Everyone in the village gathered to celebrate, bringing gifts and meals for his exhausted parents. They said a spring birth was lucky, that he would grow into a fine lad with a good head on his shoulders. 

Kurapika had few memories from those first few years. They were scattered images, fractured like pieces of glass. But he remembered warm sunshine and swimming in lakes, lush forests and large clan dinners. For many years, he was the youngest child of the clan, and he was babied as such. 

His parents were good people. His father, Goloro, was sweet. Gentle, even. He was a shorter man, with neat black hair he’d comb every morning. His eyes were narrow, his lips thin, but he had a warm smile that lit up the room. He was a doctor for the clan, but Kurapika never thought of that when he remembered his father. Anytime Kurapika thought of those days, he remembered his father’s side projects, of the cribs, tables and chairs he carved for his fellow clansmen when he had the time. 

Kurapika also remembered his father’s grim gaze when the young man wished to venture beyond their forests, how harshly he forbade it, how worried he was when Kurapika finally left to get a doctor for Pairo. It was that face--of parental love, but also of fear, sadness and heartbreak--that stuck with Kurapika after all these years. 

Dawna was his wife of sixteen years. She came from one of the Kurta clan’s first families, the Trausorts. They were an older group with money from the oil trade, but they had long since abandoned that wealth and those titles. All in the clan were known as Kurtas, nothing more, nothing less. 

Golden locks of hair, the same as her son’s, fell onto her shoulders, bouncing as she moved. Her gray eyes were glassy and radiant, the sort that belonged to a painting on a museum wall. She was a stern woman, but sweet. She didn’t quite share her husband's paranoia of the outside world--in fact, she was often one of the first to volunteer to get medical supplies or food from the outside during a famine--but she shared his worry when Kurapika left all the same. A parent’s worry. 

Dawna was primarily a hunter for the clan, but she also dabbled in medicine, using the leaves and berries she found in the Lukso Province to create healing remedies for the sick and old. That common interest was how she met her husband. 

Kurapika admired that in his mother from a young age. The contrast between her two halves, the hunter and the healer.

It rarely happened, maybe once or twice every few months, but sometimes, when Dawna was truly worried about the winter, or Goloro was especially frustrated by a project, their eyes would turn scarlet. Never long enough for Kurapika to dwell on it, maybe just a second or two, but always long enough for the young boy to notice. He’d always ask about it, asking when his eyes would turn, and every time, they’d shake their heads and laugh and dismiss the idea, telling their son that hopefully they’d never see his eyes that shade. 

He didn’t know much about his dad’s ancestors, but Kurapika did meet his paternal grandfather, Kurtaska, at one point. At the time, Kurapika was three years old and about to turn four; Kurtaska was a kind man in his late seventies, with hair that had once been Goloro’s color, now the same white as the last snow in winter. He smelled of firewood, cinnamon and sunflowers. He talked of how Goloro’s family had been in the clan for as long as anyone cared to remember, how his wife died from throat cancer some years back. He sipped at mugs of black coffee from outside the Province and laughed at old tales of mischief and heartbreak. 

When Kurapika was four, his grandfather passed away. Some kind of lung disease, Goloro said. It was a miracle he lived as long as he did. Kurapika remembered feeling saddened that his grandfather was gone, but he was so young, and still confused about the whole ordeal. _How could anyone just leave like that?_ He remembered thinking. 

He remembered looking at his mother and father, and praying that the same fate would never befall them. 

**. . . . .**

Their faces still linger in Kurapika’s mind to this day. Kurapika saw them in his dreams when he was feverish or exhausted.

The Lukso Province was massive, bigger than some small nations, but in his dreams, it always felt small. Small enough for him to make the trek back to the village in just a few hours. Small enough that all the rivers were shallow, and running through the forests never lasted more than a minute. 

As he approached, the muddy roads started turning black with ash and soot. The grass became a sick yellow, the sky gray. Smoke filled his lungs. 

The Kurta village was in flames. Wooden huts older than some of their residents had been burnt to a crisp, the flames covering Kurapika in a wretched warmth. Bodies covered the ground. Some of them had bullet holes big enough for Kurapika to fit an entire hand through. Some had bits of Nen-conjured string dangling from their shoulders, or stab wounds all over their body. There was only one common feature among all of them: their eyes had been ripped out, thoughtlessly, mercilessly. Where there had once been eyes of a rainbow of colors--browns and yellows, blues and greens, grays and purples--there were now only bloody holes. 

The villagers had clearly put up a fight. Some of them held partially-loaded guns, gleaming knives and twisting swords, shattered bokken and nunchucks. But it wasn’t enough. 

Kurapika sifted through the wreckage, tripping over the bodies of dead children and their mothers, trying to get to his home. His house was located towards the edge of their village. It hadn’t been burnt, but it was definitely broken into. Something--no, someone--had busted the front door open, taking half of the wall with it. The remaining hole was big enough for Kurapika to see the entire interior. 

His mother’s neck had been snapped, her throat crushed, as if by a massive hand. The skin around her neck was purple and bruised. His father was sprawled across the stairs, staring up at the ceiling as if to ask God: Why did this happen? 

Kurapika approached his father, shoes covered in blood and hands in ash, and sobbed. Just like every other Kurta there, his eyes were missing, plucked out without effort or care, leaving his face a bloody, distorted mess. Empty sockets stared back at Kurapika. 

As Kurapika held the corpses of his mother and father, tears sprung from his eyes. Tears of grief, of shame, of anger. He didn’t realize, but this was the first of many times his own eyes turned scarlet. 

**. . . . .**

Even now, as he set off for the Dark Continent, Kurapika thought of Dawna and Goloro. Of mom and dad. 

He scowled. The situation was worsening on the Black Whale. Three of the princes had already died, and some kind of Hatsu in the lower decks set off a chain reaction. Some kind of contagion, they said. They were a week into their sail, and already, hundreds were dead. And yet, Kurapika was still no closer to Fourth Prince Tserriednich and his collection of the Scarlet Eyes. 

But at the same time, a sense of foreboding sat over Kurapika. Not just because the dreaded Dark Continent was their eventual destination, and he’d heard story after story from Hunters with twice his age about how horrible it was. No, Kurapika’s fear came from something else. 

These were the last eyes he needed. His mission was almost done, but there was no home to return to. No family left. He hadn’t spoken to Gon or Killua in over a year. Leorio would go into medical school after this. Kurapika had...nothing. 

He was in Queen Oito’s personal chambers. It was late evening, an hour after dinner, and the sun had already gone down. The Queen sat on the edge of her bed in the corner of the room, cradling Woble in her arms. The baby babbled enthusiastically, trying to talk to her mother. Oito was too exhausted to even force a smile. 

She wasn’t the only one. Kurapika was fatigued, his skin was pale and covered in sweat, as if it took all his energy just to stay conscious. The result of two weeks of endless stress, strategy and combat. The enervating Nen training with Oito didn’t help matters, either. 

Kurapika was sitting on the floor, looking up at two of his comrades. Bisky was seated on a thin wooden chair, discussing battle plans for the contest. Hanzo was leaning against the wall next to her, eyes closed, deep in thought. 

“...I don’t know about you guys, but my biggest concern is Tserriednich.” Kurapika was so lost in thought, he didn’t even hear Bisky’s voice at first. 

“Agreed.” Hanzo’s tone was gruff, war-weary. “He mastered the four basic principles of Nen in record time, and on top of the Nen beast he already got from the Seed Urn, he developed one more.” He scowled. “It’s…”

“Sickening?” Kurapika suggested. 

“Worrisome,” Hanzo said. “He has more connections than anyone else on this boat. With that kind of power in Nen and the mafia, who knows what he’ll do next.”

Bisky hummed, stroking her chin with a gloved hand. “Though, that being said, I don’t think we should underestimate Third Prince Zhang Lei either. We need to be keeping tabs on him.”

“I know he has connections of his own, but I’m not too worried about him,” Hanzo said. “He still doesn’t have the same Nen control that Tserriednich or Camilla.” 

Bisky made a face. “He might not have Nen, but he can still be dangerous. The eldest Prince’s eem to be focusing on one-another, waiting for a time to strike.” She adjusted leaned back in her chair. “Now that Kacho, Momoze and Sale-sale are dead, I bet he’ll order a strike on the other families and Tserriednich.”

Hanzo cringed at the mention of Prince Momoze’s death. His failure. 

Kurapika closed his eyes, resting his head against the metal wall, letting Hanzo and Bisky strategize. 

He was soon lost in thought. All of the bloodshed, the violence, it took him back to another time. To a time of ashen skies, burning huts and battered, bloody bodies. 

Maybe it was stress, or sleep deprivation, or overusing Nen way too much in the last couple days, or some other combination of factors, but for a brief moment, at the mention of the Fourth Prince, Kurapika’s mind flashed with images of empty sockets and gaping wounds. Images of his parents' faces. Images of Goloro and Dawna Kurta. _Are their eyes among the Prince’s collection?_ Kurapika asked. 

He opened his eyes, now pulsing with scarlet. 

“Kurapika?” Bisky asked. 

Kurapika’s head snapped forward, at attention. “Sorry, what? I zoned out for a minute.”

“I see that,” Bisky chastised. She gestured to her eyes. “You have Emperor Time.”

Kurapika cocked his head to the side. _I didn’t realize I activated Emperor Time_ , he thought, before realizing what she meant. His eyes had turned scarlet. “Do I?” Kurapika blinked twice, then shook his head. His eyes returned to their normal colorless gray. “Sorry, I didn’t even realize.”

Bisky nodded. “It’s alright.” She and Hanzo looked to one-another, a brief flash of concern crossing their faces. They shared a nonverbal moment of communication, and then she looked back at Kurapika. “Do you need to lay down for a bit?”

“You should get some rest, man,” Hanzo said. “You’ve been going harder than any of us. I can trade my patrol, watch over Woble for you.”

Kurapika shook his head. “I can’t,” he mumbled. “Not yet.” 

Kurapika rested his face on his left hand, the feeling of cold chains on his pale flesh sending shivers down his spine. “Not until I get the Fourth Prince.”

**. . . . .**

Night came not long after. Bisky and Hanzo departed to their rooms, leaving Kurapika with Eighth Queen Oito and Fourteenth Prince Woble. The two were fast asleep on Oito’s bed within the hour, and Kurapika tucked them in with a thin cloth blanket.

After his nightly check of the room for any surveillance cameras, and his patrol of the hallways, Kurapika crawled into a spare mattress on Oito’s floor, exhausted, but too nervous to sleep. 

He closed his eyes, trying to will himself into a deep sleep. His mind turned towards the Troupe, and to Tserriednich. The Prince was his latest opponent, and his reason for being in this twisted death game, but the Spiders were his final enemies. 

The images of his parents turned to members of the Troupe. Hisoka and the string girl, Phinks and Shizuku. The lifeless, twisted faces of Uvogin and Pakunoda. Chrollo. 

Kurapika sprung out of bed, eyes scarlet. _Was I asleep?_ He inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly, repeated thrice, trying to calm himself. Eventually, his eyes turned back to their normal color. _Was that a nightmare? Or am I seeing things?_

Last week, he lost five years of his life after he fell asleep for twelve hours. The other day, he passed out after a fight with some of Xi-Yu men, and lost two more years. _Just how long do I have left?_ He thought. He’d stopped keeping track in the months that followed Yorknew. For a split second, he imagined the faces of his friends--of Gon, of Killua, of Leorio--and how frightened they’d be if they knew the truth about Emperor Time. 

He laughed, a sad, mirthless noise. _I’m sorry, mom, dad_ , he thought. _You would’ve wanted me to live, but I couldn’t. Not without you_

The walls felt like they were closing in. He blinked away hot tears _. I couldn’t save you._

He laid back down on the thin mattress, a single thought burned in his brain: _The end is near._

Around two in the morning, Kurapika finally drifted into a restless, uneasy sleep. He dreamt of spiders, burning huts and gray skies. Of Tserreidnich’s twisted grin, of Chrollo’s coal black eyes. And he dreamt of Dawna and Goloro of the Kurta clan. 

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been in my draft folder for months, but I finally got it written! Enjoy!


End file.
